


Of Noises, Surviving, and Living Well

by Prinzenhasserin



Series: Making Peace Heroic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Babysitting, HP: EWE, Hogwarts, M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows, Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, some Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Draco has bad dreams, good dreams, and way too much contact with other people. He gets by.<br/>Features: Peeves, the most famous nargle-eliminator, adorable Teddies and angry!wall-snogging</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noises

* * *

After the Battle of Hogwarts, 3rd to 6th day - Rebuilding the Grounds

**Chapter I: Crunch, Crack, Splutter - Get your mind out of the gutter**

_~_

_Crack_

_~_

It really wasn't much of a noise to wake up from, but a man/boy/whatever, who survived madness itself living in his home for more than a year, is allowed to be terrified. Draco Malfoy yanks himself up, his great-aunt's wand in hand, ready to fight and protect himself, but not awake just yet.

He sees: Spiders playing chase all over his eyes. Feels fire burning his flesh; Things shouting, things rotting, things blowing up with a bang– Green flashing lights, red fire bolts, snakes, crystal balls; all coming down to haunt thee, murderer of many.

And the smell! Smell of despair and death, of anguish and evil, of strife and struggle, but most of all an underlying awareness of a pure, desperate will to survive. Draco chokes.

~

Then, Draco is awake, truly awake, yet not much saner.

He knows – he is safe in Hogwarts, after the Battle of Hogwarts two days ago. However, knowing and feeling are two different matters. What he feels is all the regret, guilt, and terror from the two years past. He would like to forget them completely, but the dreams haunt him, just like his conscience does; because although he is a coward and a villain, he does not think himself evil. Obnoxious, yes, and certainly a nuisance to Potter, but he has not even thought of fleeing like his dad currently does.

So why– Potter is standing in front off him in the Slytherin bedrooms, all of his Saviour-self, staring at a point right over Draco's shoulder. And there is no point in running away from a _hero_.

Both of them are at Hogwarts because the castle is in desperate need of a rebuilding. There's only so much wards can take. So while they clear the grounds of dark magic and make the other dorms available for living again, they are staying in the only sleeping quarters not the least bit scathed. Slytherins are all at home, so it's those bedrooms the guests stay. What Potter does in the room where his bed is located, however, is a mystery to the rather preoccupied Slytherin.

Potter looks terrible – not the usual sort of terrible, which made one want to burn all his clothes and take him along to a shopping binge (or just yell at him, because that is way easier), but in a drained, sleep-deprived viridescence (this word being his mother's fault who just loved to copy random words from Professor Snape) wholly unbecoming of a saviour.

And Draco Malfoy, son of bloody purists, death-eater himself, chronically snobbish bastard and worst possible person to get particularly this idea, wants to hug the hero who, although technically an enemy, had slain the being that put Draco through the most pain he had to endure in his whole life; Draco Malfoy wants to hug him and tell him everything is going to be all right even though he swore allegiances to the wrong sort of people and generally didn't come out of the war very innocent looking. Who, after all, could hold any hope, if even the Chosen One had lost all of his?

But instead he does like he has always done: He sneers, because that is what he is supposed to do, and that is what would calm Draco down, and that is what brings the world back into it's joints.

"Potter.", he says, a bit awkward. It is not everyday you want to insult someone who had saved your life. "What (he doesn't say fuck, well, that's a relief) are you doing in front of my bed at-", Draco's eyes stray to the clock over Crabbe's bed, "-eleven in the evening?" But Crabbe does not live there any more, in fact, he does not live _at all_ any more, so that makes calling it Crabbe's bed all the more morbid.

"Be nice, Draco.", his mum tells him.

He looks over to the voice. There is standing his mother, behind Zabini's bed, who is still alive because Zabini's mother had the gall to declare herself _neutral._ Narcissa Malfoy has slept there yesterday and the day before, but today he had not noticed her presence yet. She had been supervising the left-over kids somewhere. She has a teapot in her hand and Draco smells something similar to jasmine. With another crack she opens it and steam ascends from the pot. So this noise had woken him.

"I am nice.", Draco defends himself, "I am extraordinarily nice. I haven't even hexed him yet. If I were even nicer, he would have to faint in wonder."

His mother stares at him accusingly. There was an old rule in the Malfoy manner codex. Do not insult possible allies and betters of yourself –  but he just doesn't give a... whatever.

Narcissa Malfoy is probably one of the saner people in pure-blood society. Okay, she may have been a racist, and a supremacist, but she never took the dark mark, nor has she ever been extremely cruel, but if she stares at you accusingly, all blond and blue-eyed, you see the resemblance between her and her stupid insane witch of sister. Draco shudders internally thinking of being related to such an insane calamity, and looks at Potter. _What wouldn't you give to be equally poised._

That git dares to have a twinkle in his eyes.

Now Draco has the very stupid urge to hit him. Physical violence wasn't his, make that all sorts of violence nowadays, and because he doesn't know what else to do, he does what he is told.

He is being nice to Potter. _Oh, my god, shoot me._ He is so going round the bend. He is about to apologise.

"I am sorry, Potter.", he says quickly before anyone can stop him. Not as if there is anyone present who would. Except the sane parts of his brain who obviously can't be awake. "For everything you had to endure because of me. It was probably my mistake all along.", he adds for good measure, but notices in the last minute how unbelievable it is, Draco Malfoy apologizing to any treatment of Potter. _Well. We all know war does this thing to people._

Potter gapes at him. Draco knew this would happen. _Next minute, stupid git would faint. You are going to catch flies if you keep that up any longer._

"Besides those Potter stinks!-Badges. They were great. A grand invention. Excellent spell-work, too, if I say so myself. Except for that, I apologise profoundly.", in an attempt to sound more convincing – which he does not by the by (in case it was not obvious), he starts babbling. And bows.

At least Potter now does not look like fainting, but rather twitching between laughing and crying. Probably Draco himself looks like that.

"Now that I have been nice, can I go back to sleep?", he asks his mother.

Potter begins laughing. It sounds good, after the strain of digging up graves for the fallen, for a few days Draco even suspected the only thing he would see for the rest of his life were going to be mourning faces and graveyards, splattered mud across the lawn. A few days back, he has also suspected he would be murdered at the first arriving opportunity, so maybe his suspicion isn't all that it was. Then Potter says: "I'm sorry, too." And Draco really does not know what to do any more.

_Is he seriously apologising?_

If he thinks closer about it, what exactly had Potter done wrong, besides using _Expelliarmus_ in a duel to death? "Especially for not saving Crabbe."

Oh, that too. Draco sighs. "He had it coming.", Draco says, frowning. "He wanted you dead. I mean, why did he even start that fire? And– I thought it a wonder you saved me and Goyle, but we weren't actually _Avada Kedavra_ -ing you, were we? Only you– You hero." The last word is an insult, and Potter knows it. "Anyway,", he adds after a pause. "Do you mind? I like to go to bed and sleep. I don't sleep that well."

Potter hops from one foot to the other. Then he says grumpily: "Oh, please. It's not like you to suddenly develop a conscience."

Draco arches his eyebrow: "Living next to batty aunt Bella and rotting ol' Voldy can do that to you, you know?"

He sees a tiny little smile displaying in Potter's face and is satisfied.

"This whole conversation is not happening.", _No more pity from the saviour, thank Merlin/someone._

Draco yawns, climbs back into bed and closes his eyes.

The voice of Potter fades out as he says: "I am really glad you'll live to annoy me.", a short pause, then: "Goodnight, Malfoy."

* * *

_Splash_.

"Oh shit."

Draco almost jumps out of his bed.

Cold pale bodies are lining in on him. Inferi, crawling out of their graves and hiding places, bringing along their soulless little mates, grave robbers, all of them. Spreading fear, anguish and more fear all over the world. Gruesome little creatures, and fog, lots and loads of fog spreading slowly, making everything look pale and sinister; just like him, but so unlike him. Closing in on him, closer and closer, crowding him, making him break out in cold sweat and making him pant.

"Malfoy?", the voice of Potter says worryingly, but the words betray that, "Are you hyperventilating because I'm here or is that normal?"

Eyes open, he is wide-awake now. Unconsciously Draco has grabbed his wand – or rather his great-aunt's, for it was made of maple wood, entirely unbecoming of him – what had happened to him? Oh, yeah. Draco's aunt had happened. Draco breaths a sigh of relief. She was dead, and hopefully stayed that way for a long time. "It's eleven in the evening and you are here again.", he states after his breath is regular and a quick check to the clock. "Another date with my dear mother? Should I be worried?" For good measure he adds a sneer worthy of every ounce Malfoy he possesses.

"Draco.", his mum says. "I told you to be nice."

"I like the way he is, thank you very much.", Potter tells her, and Draco chokes. Almost. Always the dignified pure-blood. _What is like-able about his prickly, damaged self? The charm?_

"I really don't want to do things I don't like any more.", Draco states. "Look how well that ended."

His mother sighs.

He looks at Potter, who seems uncomfortable somehow, and then at his mother who pours tea instead of looking at him. Then the guest catches his attention.

Why was Aunt Bella sitting there, drinking tea with his mum and Potter? Wasn't that just hilarious? All three bane of his existence together at a tea party. Professor Snape would have just loved the irony.

"You must be Aunt Andromeda.", he says nervously and searches frantically for a way to greet her without going near her. She looks too much like aunt Bella.

"And you must be the fraidy-cat my sister calls her son.", sounds too much like dear Bella, too.

He sneers – his automatic response to insults of any kind. But that probably wasn't mainly an insult. "Yes. I am."

"He is no coward.", Potter defends him, and Draco thinks, how could he ever live that down, Potter defending him. And then his mother adds: "He lived next-door to Bella for a year."

Andromeda Tonks raises her eyebrows like his mother does sometimes. And he says without thinking: "That was no courage, that was plain fear."

Then he just wants to hug his pillow and cry, or go outside and scare some left-over Hufflepuffs – because those damn Gryffindors – they are actually not Gryffindors, but still fucking heroes – make him feel even more inferior because he never fought and still survived both the Battle and the Dark Lord. And then there's the itty-bitty tiny little detail of being a Death-Eater. _Stupid name for a group of supremacists. Eating death, my arse._

"I am going to sleep.", he announces and lays down again.

But instead of sleeping – which he desperately needs to look more healthy than Potter – he listens in on their conversations. Rattling on about rebuilding Hogwarts – or rather filling it up with magic so it repaired itself, and on couples and kisses, of donations and stuff he doesn't want to think about, he listens to friendly voices and feels calmness creeping over him. He feels safe for a first time since the War.

"May I ask what you are still doing in Hogwarts, Mrs. Malfoy?", he hears Potter ask.

Oh, he knows the answer to that one: The Manor is still being rebuilt, to clear out the dark stench and the frightening memories. Hogwarts is the most safe place to stay at, and the one where future allegiances are built. It also won't hurt if former death-eaters help rebuilding it, and there is the additional detail of her dear husband on the run. And Narcissa, clever, talented witch that she is, fears for her life and fortune. Again. _That's what you get for being on the wrong side of a war_ , he thinks bitterly. But there is Potter, bright and shining star of the right side, and even though the right side did nasty stuff, too and rampaged and killed people from the other side, Potter actually stayed innocent. Which was most unfortunate, because he really couldn't hate Potter, if he had used _Expelliarmus_ in a duel with Voldemort. It simply wasn't done. It was stupid, and dumb and such a hero-like thing to do, he just wasn't able to hate the git.

"May I ask what you are still doing here, Mr. Potter?", he mumbles into his pillow, but still isn't quiet enough.

"Malfoy, would you mind your own business?"

"Yea, right."

* * *

The third and last noise to disturb the posh Slytherin into remembering is a most devious plan of Peeves. In midst the dungeons a cupboard full of kettles is emptied on the head of one very disturbed Draco Malfoy, who – lacking alternatives – hexed a glass vial up in the nose of the poltergeist.

_Clatter, Thunk, Crash._

A long silvery hand appears in front of his face, equally long wiry fingers stretch out and cling to his nose. Not many people would know how scary, how utterly terrifying a hand could be, he and Wormtail were probably the only ones. The hand dances and glitters, plays with its victim and suddenly he's back at the manor, hoping for his dear life that Granger's spell would last more than three hours, more than four, more than five. The fear, the terror of having Potter in the cellars was utterly numbing. And then Bella tortured Granger, and the screams and more screams, and the feeling of doom, because you just know how it feels, and you don't want them to experience the same, and please, please, does she have to play with her food before she kills it? And you know you are doomed, and you are terrified, because either Voldemort was going to kill Potter and everything would go to hell, or Potter and Weasley would come and kill him and everything would – well, go to hell.

Now Weasley is in front of Draco and latter is almost pleased to see those freckles, although former is angrily growling. After all, Draco is just standing there doing nothing and Weasley is not exactly Draco's fan. He normally feels the same, not right now though. He would love anyone who wakes him out of memories of Voldy and the War. Which is why he right now is really close to hug that bloody Weasel and whimpering and begging for forgiveness, but that just is not done.

Weasley probably sees Draco's devastated expression, because he asks grumbling, nevertheless friendly: "Are you all right?"

Draco nods and the daily headaches come. _Hmm. Wonder why I feel so terrible all day. May not have to do something with Potter, eh?_

Weasley takes a look at the cupboard, then a look at Draco, and then looks at the ceiling. "I hope that hex you fired at Peeves was chosen well.", he states.

Draco is impressed. He had always thought Weasley as dense as Potter. Now it seemed more as if he actually paid attention. "Shoved a glass vial of calming draught up his nose.", Draco confesses. "I really hope it works magically as well. I don't want to be here when he gets the bugger out."

Weasley grins, even chuckles, which is weird because Twin 1 of the Weasley's is dead, and levitates all the cauldrons back onto the cupboard and affixes them to a shelf with a sticking charm.

"Oh just look at that.", Finnegan has entered the room, is now frowning and the room temperature drops a few degrees. "Collaboration with the enemy, Ron? And from you of all people?"

He sneers at Weasley, but Finnegan's sneer is nothing compared with his own, so Draco does not bother to wipe the grin of his face. Weasley darts his eyes to Draco and starts grinning, too. Finnegan always was sort of a wanker, and same enemies make friends.

"Harry drinks tea with ferret's mother.", Weasley dead-pans, and Draco adds: "And doesn't even test for poison."

"Ferret!", cries the Weasel, and they are on the floor laughing their asses off and it is happy time, they cannot stop laughing, and Finnegan leaves, completely ignored and peeved.

"Did you see his face? That is so going in the record! Can somebody go into my memories and take a picture of that?" _Why are we suddenly best friends?_

By dinnertime they have bonded. So far they agree on Quidditch, stupid ol' Voldy and the annoying habits of Filch. They have played wizard's chess (Draco got a trashing) while collecting all of the former students stuff, packing it and stashing it for two other guys to send, and neither has made the other upset. Coming together into the Great Hall, everyone turns silent at the sight of Draco and Ron all dusty and ragged chatting away happily. They go to the open seats besides Potter and Granger, because the great united table seems in an uproar.

Potter's eyes trail all over the two. "Glad to see you up and walking.", he smiles. And Draco wonders, how he came to be best friends with Potter, who he tried to kill (well, he did not try hard) last week.

An astonished look from Granger/Hermione: "You have grown up, boys! No one is hexed, and nobody has been insulted! I am so proud of you..."

Ron snorts and puts a stash of food on his plate before he digs in. Draco scrutinizes the contents of the plates, then goes for Plum Pudding and eats the crust very carefully. Potter is looking at him, then smiles at his plate and leans back.

Luna Lovegood walks past the table, subsequently as he remembers the dreams of her strong, almost haughty figure, looking like a god damn motherfucking martyr, but not trying to, just being one, sent for torture, so his aunt would be pleased. Draco has apologised before, and wonders how come the girl can be so calm in the crowds, because he, he can only tremble and hope nobody notices.

_But don't we all have ugly dreams of dreadfulness? Aren't we allowed to weep and cry?_

He really has started to like her, especially all the times she comes to check on him and looks for Nargles. Both the ridiculousness of it and the care she attaches to such inconceivable things like Nargles make him feel happy and bemused. Still somehow he fears the loneliness and Nargles are probably a metaphor for something else entirely anyway. Luna, after all, is a Ravenclaw. All of the sudden there is a cup of coffee in front of him. With sugar and just the right amount of cream. Draco remembers the one house elf they had long ago, who was dead now, yet had saved Potter in his dying breath. All roads lead back to Potter, it seemed.

"Sorry.", he murmurs again, and feels sick attached to the inanity of Gryffindors, yet again it makes the dreadfulness better.

He hears a snort. But that just might be Ron again.

"You know.", says Hermione abruptly and lifts her head from the enormous letter she has in her hands, folds it and lays it on the stash of paper she receives every morning. "After-war trials are starting next month."

Nobody, least Draco wants to think about that, so they ignore her. The war is too near to be over. Clever witch she is, she drops the subject.

Somehow Luna sits down next to him and Longbottom takes a seat, too. "Hi, Draco.", she says dreamily like she has always done and probably will always do.

"Looking good.", she compliments him and he feels so guilty and blameworthy.

She looks at him with wide-open eyes. "What has happened to all the Nargles?", she asks. "I was wondering whether I should scare them away with forks, but now they are completely gone!"

He almost splutters out the sip of coffee he has taken, and everyone looks at Luna.

"Betcha that was Peeves.", Ron breaks the silence and sniggers, "Peeves, the famous Nargle Eliminator. "

* * *

 


	2. Of Punches and Apologies

* * *

7th - 10th Day After Voldemort, Baiting Potter

##  _**Chapter II: Punches and Apologies** _

Only on the 7th day after the Battle of Hogwarts, the 29th of May, reality set in for Draco Malfoy. On that day, between tea and supper, Draco Malfoy perceived the established fact, that the Dark Lord, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort/Tom Marvolo Riddle/Moldy Voldy is dead; in fact, all dead and not just mostly. Of course, realisation has set in quite late, as Draco Malfoy knew before that You-Know-Who was dead; after all, he was present at his downfall. But only now, the actuality has become a certainty: The stupid wanker is dead.

The Dark Side was not just, because they allowed the Dark Arts – well, who had believed that anyway. Fact was, Potter had won, which gave him the right, which kind of – but only slightly – was able to destroy all doctrines of Draco's upbringing. Or had the potential to do, because Granger was still a mudblood, a clever one at that, but still a mudblood, and Weasley was nothing more than a nuisance, a bloody traitorous nuisance, who could hand him his ass in chess.

In Draco's humble opinion, it was all a great mess and nothing could be done about it. Nobody was perfect after all.

If you fought for a right cause (the purity of blood, for instance), on a side which wrecked havoc on just those beliefs (had the Dark Lord not been a half-blood; and all of them – or at least the saner ones – had known?), did that only make you a hypocrite, or also a fool? Contemplating the bigger questions in life, he almost walked into a group of Ravenclaw girls who were worse than any Gryffindor first year. Giggling maniacally, and gossiping probably about the colour of Potter's– Either way, he excused himself and then needed to hold onto his dear nerves for they started to bitch about death-eaters and lessening their sacrifice with a Malfoy present in school.

_What sacrifice?_ Draco thought. _Loosing all of their make-up in favour for their life?_

Nevertheless, he held his wand close, but did not hex them yet; he had promised his mother to _behave_. His self-preservation instincts were even better then previously proven, because Professor McGonagall turned around the corner.

She nodded at him and for once, he was glad that she was the new headmistress. Professor Snape would sooner have eaten his (non-existing) hat than to protect a student from another house.

"Ah, Miss Edgecombe!", she declared. "I was looking for you all over the castle, to deal with that request of yours. Wouldn't you consider drawing the bed back? Madame Pomfrey assures me that women in childbirth are very sensitive and there is not knowing what her husband Bill Weasley would do to you – nobody has researched the effects of half/almost bidden werewolves." She frowned as if there was no reason researches should laze around in a war.

Draco was an itty-bitty tiny little bit glad that she was the Head of Gryffindor, because there was just no way Professor Snape would have defended anyone.

Angry stares turned to Miss Edgecombe. Draco knew her from one of his mother's parties – a very pure pure-blood, according to her mother, but downright nasty nonetheless.

Quietly wondering whether or not his was the only world turned upside down by stupid ol' Voldemort and his wonderful darling aunt Bellatrix, his feet travel to the Slytherin common room. But it was just his luck: the Golden Boy had to be present.

* * *

The common room was dimly lit, not as unusual as the only occupant sitting beside the fireplace.

Potter.

Draco stood still, perplexed, because while he expected someone, it certainly wasn't Potter, nor anyone that could inflict such different emotions like the Chosen Git did. What exactly had he done to deserve this turmoil? What had he _done_? And his head was chanting, not thinking about his reputation at all: _Potter has won. The Dark Git is as dead as a doornail. I am free. Finally._

Chanting, over and over again, his emotions were switching between borderlines – ecstatic, depressed, angry, frightened, happy, grouchy, you name it. Sodding fuck – what was he supposed to _do_?

Potter glanced up, both forlorn and disorientated, but still with a frightening and dangerous tint in his eyes. He smiled, a bit crookedly, bitter and definitely loop-sided.

Draco was about to scream blue murder. That... Potter should be the sword-wielding hero to rescue the princess, not another lost soul in need to be rescued!

"Look at you!", Potter seemed to have snapped out of it. Draco on the other hand could quite adapt to his ever-changing moods.

Draco snarled instead.

"Erm, Malfoy?", and now the hero had the most ridiculous look on his face. He almost appeared to be laughing.

Draco calmed his breathing. It did not help, because Potter asked: "Have you heard about your father?"

Heard? What should he have heard? Lucius Malfoy may be a very resourceful man, more so when in trouble, but his son still doubted he would be able to do something sinister while in protective custody. Maybe he got himself killed – which still would be a feat even for Voldemort's almost/sometimes right hand man. Maybe he even fled – which was probably more possible. Or maybe he had done something completely ridiculous, like writing an open apologizing letter. Or tried to remove the dark mark. Or maybe his illicit relationship with a house-elf was discovered. Or he implied to be Voldy's bitch. Or maybe only ridiculous reasons were left.

And his brain was jubilant; because Voldemort was dead and stayed that way; because Potter had won; because he was alive and Voldemort was not; because Aunt Bellatrix would not be able to torture him from her grave; because the Manor belonged to him; because he was free; because he didn't have to kill no more, and torture, and rampage, and rape nobody; because Longbottom was the world's most famous snake slayer; because he finally was free to do whatever; because, well, because Moldy Voldy was dead as a doornail.

"What do you suppose I have heard?", Draco snarled again, because now he bloody can, added a sneer and felt like a little Hufflepuff after surviving Potions with Professor Snape.

"That your father is the main testimony for the death-eater trials. He's in protective custody, together with Dung- erm, Mundungus Fletcher."

"Where's the news in that?", Draco replied, no less friendly than before. _Who in Merlin's name is Mundungus Fletcher, and what's with that name?_

"That's what I'd like to now." Potter smiled at him expectantly. Draco wanted to punch him, but that would confront his new 'no violence'-policy.

"Fuck you.", he said instead, he could have said "Sod off", or even "Go away", or "mind your own business", but rude language made the smile fade away quickly and what he really couldn't deal with was a friendly, smiling Potter who had rescued him.

Potter clicks his tongue: "Well, aren't you nice."

Instead he heard his mothers voice: _Aren't you supposed to be nice? We want to built up trust and prestige!_ So what he said is: "Fuck her."

"Really eloquent and sophisticated, Malfoy. One can quite imagine that your fifth birthday is long past. Aren't you the one who complains about my diction?", Potter replied sort-of bemused.

_Since when do I only complain about your diction?_ "Well, then, fuck me!", Draco thought he may have lost all of his dignity, but then Potter smirked.

Potter raised an eyebrow – and said: "Thank you, I'd rather not."

Draco only barely restrained himself from _Crucio_ -ing the Arrogant One, partly because Potter had the nerve to look bored. Potter had won. Potter had killed the bastard Lord. Potter made them free. Bellatrix and the Dark Git were no more, all because of Potter. Potter had the _nerve_ to look _bored_. Why was it that living with him was such a problem? "Be nice, Draco!" - and that was most definitely his subconscious sounding like his mother. But why couldn't he?

Draco sat down. Counted to ten, then to fifty, and then to 87, where Potter interrupted.

"Would you...erm. Do you-"

_Wasn't he totally unperturbed before?_ Draco looked up to see a flustered Potter. Whether or not that was done intentionally, he couldn't judge, but somehow he felt reassured. Not everything had changed, after all – stammering was one of the common attributes of Potter.

"How endearing.", Draco didn't realize that before speaking it out aloud. It sounded as if to mock. _Was there even something to make fun of?_

Potter swallowed, but stayed quiet and didn't repeat the question.

In silence, they sat together, both contemplating over the fact they were survivors and although not the only ones, had lost the thrive forward. Weird faith it was, and bad luck to boot and nothing could be done about it.

Suddenly Potter broke the silence. "I'm so fucked up.", he said.

Draco stared at the fly which scrambled over the mantelpiece, so as not to gape at Potter. Of course he was fucked up, they all were, but to have the Golden Boy realize that in your physical presence was... odd.

"You're fucked up too.", Potter added. "We're all fucked up. So." There was a short pause. "What are we going to do?"

_Start fucking back_. Draco snorted. Who had messed with his brain? Because this weren't sophisticated Malfoy thoughts. The duty of his heritage... oh, sod it. Sod it to the charming parts of Hogwarts dungeons. What else were they supposed to do?

"You're going to go hero. Oh wait. You already are.", Draco said bitterly. Then he would go auror, Draco was sure, no need to finish your NEWT's if you were the Saviour of the Wizarding world. Hunting dark wizards like the Malfoys, inferi, dementors – Potter was always looking for trouble, wasn't he?

"You're so very funny, Malfoy. I wonder why Voldemort wouldn't appreciate that."

And he wants to hit him, because Potter has won and can't even let him his one tiny vice. He needs to insult him, he needs it, more than he needs food, because otherwise he would loose himself. Lord Voldemort is dead, and has no more demands, his father is going to become a traitor to his ideals, his mother tells him to be nice, his world is bloody rotten and there is nothing there, just Potter and his insults, but Potter has already won! Draco sighed involuntarily. "Aren't you going to join the bloody aurors?", he hopes his voice sounds curious, not miserable or flouting.

Potter snorted in response, then replied almost as bitter as Draco felt: "As if I am good for anything other than sacrificing myself. As if Expelliarmus would help you catching dark wizards. As if I'd pass the test with Veritaserum – I used Unforgivables by choice."

"Everyone used Unforgivables. We fought a god-damn war.", Draco stated. _But that sounds reasonably thought through._

"No auror is allowed to have used them before joining. And if they may be lax by recruiting me, I'd always feel guilty.", Potter professes. "As a Gryffindor, you know. Honesty and all that. I also suck at Potions. And, believe me or not, I'm sick of having to capture dark wizards."

It made sense somehow, quite reliable so, but was so unexpected the Chosen One would think that far ahead. Most of the time Draco perceived Potter as one who didn't think just did. Thinking about it, Potter had no military thinking, no self-awareness, heck, he went into a forest with hundreds of Death-Eaters to confront the Dark Lord, all alone. What would be an auror without a survival instinct?

"Potter?", Draco groaned. "Please tell me I am not sitting here contemplating your career choices."

Potter flashed him a quick grin. "You are not sitting here contemplating my working opportunities."

"But I am!"

"Didn't say that.", Potter said amused. "It's not as if anyone was watching."

"Potter, I don't want to know what _things_ you do while no one is watching!"

Potter looked at him, his head to the side with an loop-sided grin that almost embarrassed the Malfoy heir. Even so, he managed to stay on topic. "I don't think I want to play Quidditch, either.", he said.

Draco raised one eyebrow. "Well. Too much reporting to your liking, I guess. If the way you treated Skeeter is any indication."

Potter looked flabbergasted, then sighed. "You know way too many of my flaws, Malfoy."

"Not as if you don't know any of mine.", Draco replied.

"Still, I don't think of Quidditch as an appropriate occupation, sorry.", Potter apologized, but Draco didn't know why.

"Clever you.", he snorted instead, "Because it really isn't an appropriate occupation."

"Like you'd know.", snapped Potter, probably because Draco dared to insult his intelligence. He should definitely do that more often.

"Like you'd know why the ministry is acting stupid, although there is no denying the fact.", Draco retorted.

"True.", Potter agreed as an afterthought. "Still doesn't help me to find a job, you know?"

"You actually need a job?", Draco raised his eyebrows in doubt. "Commoner."

"I need one to keep me sane.", clarified Potter.

Sane? Potter? "How about politics then?", Draco felt safe to mock the poor boy openly.

"You really want me to go potty that badly?"

"Go?", Draco wanted to know quite amused. "Potter, you're so off your rocker you're on it again!"

"Nice.", Potter snorted. After another short break he asked: "Politics, then?" He sighed. "What are you going to get yourself into?"

Draco thought over the question. They were speaking about jobs weren't they? "Laze around, contemplate the universe, become the next Dark Lord's minion... you know, the usual stuff."

"And here I thought Slytherins were ambitious."

"Potter. I give you a very good advice: Never disrespect your elders.", Draco drawled out, knowing the attempt of scaring Potter would be just that, an attempt.

"Malfoy, you shouldn't disrespect the one who owns your wand and defeated a Dark Lord with it.", nevertheless this was a witty come-back line.

"Potter, you should not disrespect the one whose wand you have stolen.", his brain said, before he could shut it up. Because you just didn't tell anyone that your wand was gone. "Nevertheless, this _is_ a weird conversation, and I can just hope no muggle is listening in, because that would make the whole issue disgusting on top."

Potter burst out laughing. "You really are something.", he said, after calming down a little.

"You really are something, too.", Draco smirked, "Or else my imagination is a very vivid one."

Potter smiled wistfully and together, they stared into the simmering flames in the fireside. A patronus appeared. It was a cat, a silver tabby cat with a smile rivalling that of the infamous Cheshire cat. "Mr. Potter", it whispered into the now cosy warm common room. "I would appreciate your coming to the formal dinner with the minister tonight. Please wear something...appropriate?"

As the silence returned, Draco wondered what the new headmistress, for it was obviously Professor McGonagall's patronus, deemed appropriate dinner wear.

"Well.", Potter spoke finally. "Guess that's it for bonding talks in front of the fire-place."

"Thank you for mercy.", Draco prompted, only to earn a very nasty look from Potter.

"I still have a firm grip on your wand, Malfoy.", a very nasty look indeed.

"To think they always call the Slytherins perverted." _And here it was_ , Draco thought. The joy of taunting Potter, of aggravating him, the pure joy of mocking him – because that was what he did best, naught?

* * *

(Letter: Owled by _Pig(widgeon)_ from _The Burrow_ to _Hogwarts - New Dormitory_ )

> Dear Harry,
> 
> The day after tomorrow we are all going to come to Hogwarts for the funerals, especially Fred's. As you must know, that is a very trying occasion for all of us, but I really need you to make your mind up by then. I always thought I was the one to make you happy, that it was me who brought you back to the joys of the world. However, you have not contacted me once.
> 
> It is very sad that you deemed few of the other letters important enough to reply, but I apologize as there must be much to do.
> 
> Harry, I miss you. ~~Aren't you going to come home?~~
> 
> Love, Ginny.
> 
> PS: This letter is the subtle way of telling you to make your mind up, or I am going to dump you myself. I can handle my brothers, but I can't handle not being in the clear.

* * *

Many Aurors roamed the castle these days, but that was definitely nothing Draco liked. Healers they needed, too, healers and medi-wizards were always needed. And he simply didn't want to join the ministry. Grimacing, he barely noticed Potter coming down for his _dinner_ invitation.

Potter for once looked astonishing and was impeccable dressed. Probably because he wore green – dark green, but the colour of snakes nonetheless – with golden lining, making him look not only like a wealthy young man, but the embodiment of power, too. _Which he had, but you tend to forget that most of the time._

Draco scowled. Not only that Potter refused to die, not only had he boosted his fan base, no, he also _had_ to fight on the side against the Malfoys. _What a ponce._

_But of course, that is in no-way your fault, because actually you are one of those poor, repressed, misunderstood teenagers and you would have never taken the dark mark had you known what you would get into._ He snorted at his thoughts. _It's not as if you had begged and pleaded your father. Or if you are stupid enough to let yourself be manipulated and dominated, but instead step freely into life-long slavery. Nobody would state the truth, after all._

"Draco? Draconis? Draconem?" _I'm going to get wasted_ , he thought, fully intending to ignore funny voices in his head for however long they lasted. _Because Potter's great, and I'm not?Because I'm power hungry, because that is what makes things interesting? Because I just could not stand to be someone's mindless minion, I rather not experience that again and so I'll have to get my own bout of power?_

"Draco...MALFOY!", Luna screeched into his ears. He jumped, wand drawn, to the ceiling.

His perpetrator smiled serenely: "Ah, so there you are. I was worried for a moment. Maybe I had mixed Nargles with dementors. For a while you looked positively soulless."

Draco grimaced at the thought, but Luna didn't react to his expression.

"I wrote you a thank-you note.", she said absently, then her voice changed as if to recite something in front of her eyes.

"Dear Mr. Malfoy.", she began. "I'm very grateful for your letter of apology. However, I deem it not necessary, as neither were you personally responsible, nor was it you who imprisoned me. If my memory serves correctly, you were also the only one to heal me and feed me. Therefore, you may be excused from any obligations you might feel towards me. Sincerely, Luna M Lovegood, in brackets: The Loony"

Luna smiled, then took a deep breath. "I'm so glad that's done."

Draco was – one could say without words. That's why his brain didn't make it further than: "Why are you-" He felt still ashamed, and humble (probably for the first time in his life) and... speechless.

"I felt like it.", she said simply, as if she understood those emotions and at the same time a bit random. Then, she steered around the corner to the Entrance Hall and asked: "When are you going to invite me to the Manor? I believe, I saw glimpses of glitterpuffs there."

Caught unaware, Draco wondered aloud: "Glitterpuffs?", almost forgetting about the skeletons in his cupboard (or dungeons, in this case).

* * *

"-well and now that Fudge came back, the blood demand of St. Mungo's is increasing _again_ \- clear indicator that something must be wrong with the guy..." Potter sat down grinning beside Luna who still was elaborating suspicious behaviour of the Ministry.

Finally somebody to save him from this fountain of very... interesting speculations. Luna stopped her rant, probably still about something of this conspiracy in the ministry and assumed again her standard dreamy – almost mushroom-dreamy – smile: "Hi, Harry."

"Mr. Potter.", Draco imitated the voice of his late godfather and the most feared Professor and watched with glee, when Potter turned white and looked over his shoulder, even though the voice came distinctly from him. "I may be convinced to forgive you."

Potter had a stone-faced façade as he replied: "What? That I _rescued_ you?"

_Oh no. Don't you dare remind me of that night. And Crabbe._

* * *

It's the night of the Battle again, and it's getting hot. Hotter. Heat and More Heat.

_Don't kill him. Don't kill him._

Blazing fire. Screams.

_Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't you dare kill him. Just don't kill him._

Ashes. Cinder. Smoke. Burned Pieces of rubble. And Potter, always Potter, again and again Potter.

_Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't kill him. Don't kill him._

On a broom you think you hallucinate, and then again there is cold with your feet freezing, and for a change your clothes look actually worse than Potter's. "Accidentally" you slice open Yaxley and stun Stupid McNaught and what's-his-name. And Crabbe, Crabbe is dead and won't be coming back. You black out. And you're in the present again.

* * *

"No.", Draco said curtly. "For making me utterly miserable. For making my life hell."

Potter cocked an eyebrow. "Lost someone dear to you, Dray-co?", he purred, purposely mispronouncing the name.

_That was very insensitive to say_ , noted half of Draco. _The other one: Why do you always say the most stupid things only to Potter? Or uncle Severus_ , the smart part of him added.

* * *

Oh, how you love flashbacks. Like Uncle Severus. Lying in the dirt, all muddy and sordid. A pale, so very pale face and black, sleazy hair.

Potter standing on the other side, looking devastated, even though his menacing Professor is gone. Another Death-Eater, dead.

Draco, thinking: "In my worst memories, why is Potter always prominent?"

Potter, saying: "I wish he got his Merlin 1st class thingy.", probably as some sort of justification.

And Draco screaming, not knowing anything any more: "Potter, you stupid wanker!" and punching the Chosen One, so that bones crack and blood shatters and he can't feel a thing.

* * *

In retrospective he probably shouldn't have done that. Strangely not satisfying though, because Potter didn't punch him back.

"Snape. Crabbe. Voldemort?", Potter guessed. "Why do they all have those mean sounding names?"

"Shut up. Just shut up."

Luna made a sound.

Both of them turned to her, surprised she was still present, while she got up and cleaned her white skirt. "The air is really tense here.", she stated. "I better go help Neville with the Bowltruckles. He always tickles the wrong spots."

After she left, they sit around awkward.

"You kind of took the death of your godfather similar to me.", Potter confessed after a very long and uncomfortable silence.

_How could he have known I was thinking of Severus?_ "You went around and trashed people's faces? Funny, how come I don't remember that?", he asked out aloud instead.

Potter smiled crookedly: "I trashed Dumbledore's office so badly, he had to replace most of the items. Every time I walk in there, the first headmistress looks down at me and tells me to 'take a lemon drop, before you overexhaust yourself'."

Draco snorted into his pumpkin juice. "I shall remember then, to always carry a bag of lemon drops around you. Can't have you destroying my hairstyle, can I?", he said, and this attempt at self-parody turned out not so feeble after all.

* * *

Next evening, the lemon drops, even the ones laced with a Calming Draught, would have been a preferable evil. Yet probably they would not have helped matters much due to the fact that Neville Longbottom had chosen this particular evening to feel especially courageous.

Longbottom finally decided to grace the large table in the Great Hall after a long day in the greenhouses. He was satisfied and quite happy, since nobody had been killed in the past two weeks and his grandmother was at home and didn't nag him any more. Which gave him the courage to finally approach Malfoy.

Malfoy had been looking depressed, sleep-deprived and deathly pale, and Neville felt oddly worried. Thus, against his better judgement, he decided to thank Malfoy for helping rebuilding what he had destroyed. Furthermore, Neville remembered the torturous months of the Carrow Regime where Malfoy had gone out of his way to dissolve attention for torturing classes.

However, neither did he calculate that the Slytherin would not be very pleased to have the thanks of a Gryffindor, nor would he be especially grateful by gestures of pity.

But that was the Gryffindor's essential problem: Too stupid to allow them to breath. At least Snape would have put it like that.

* * *

And looking at Longbottom, Draco understood the problem his godfather had with Gryffindorks. Stubbornly standing there, looking quite pointedly over a point above his left shoulder, with the obvious fear admitting a vulnerable spot a Slytherin would have doubtlessly denied, and thanking his long-time perpetrator. Thanking!

That Gryffindor had the courage to approach him earnestly and say: "I wanted to thank you."

Were he not so annoyed about the now uncontrollable circumstance, he would have been impressed by the amount of liquor that it evidently took for this audacity. But alas, he only got a stupid itch of irritation, made worse by his headache and the lack of decorum of Longbottom.

Draco started laughing – bitter, conveying all of the annoyance he felt: "You don't have to thank anyone, Longbottom. Least of all people who tortured you with glee. I can continue to do that."

Longbottom shifted his eyes: "You know what I mean."

Draco snorted. "No, Longbottom.", he sneered. "I don't know what you mean. I can only guess, and more so since I am not accustomed to Gryffindor eloquence, but I doubt anyone with half a brain would thank _anyone_ who tortured him before. Now go and piss off!"

"I heard of Ron, and how Crabbe died, and I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate your efforts.", Longbottom told him – he clearly didn't notice that Draco already was at the edge of his countenance. It was simply unheard of: Being apologized in the Great Hall, by _Longbottom_ , to be seen by _people_ , and being close to lose all of the petty control he had over his emotions.

"Ron told me you would react like this.", Longbottom continued to sprout of this _nonsense_. "He told me you were fighting your inner demons-"

"Longbottom.", Draco pressed out between his teeth, "If you have any resemblance of sense left, I'd advise you to hurry, before my urge to smash you overrides my need for dignity."

"You have yet to insult my parents.", Longbottom states and Draco trembles with suppressed fury and anger.

Suddenly arms grabbed him from behind, to assault- no, hug him?

Potter whispered into his ears: "Don't do anything I won't."

"Potter.", his voice didn't hide the shattered intestines as good as robes do, "I really-", and words got stuck in his throat.

"Punch me instead.", Potter ordered.

And he did just that. He lunged at Potter, had turned around and just punched him, as if there was no tomorrow and no one would exist except- Potter.

* * *

When Harry had told Malfoy to punch him, he had not expected it to hurt that much. After all, he had stood with the Cruciatus Curse flowing through his veins, what was a measly punch against that?

But as Malfoy lunged at him, he had to fight so as not to scream or hit back. They rolled over the floor of the Great Hall like werewolves mating, kneazels fighting for their territory or- well, Potter and Malfoy fighting.

They bumped against a table, then a first-year to afraid to jump out of the way, an invisible house-elf trying to balance a tower of plates. Harry was sure his right wrist was at least sprained and somehow his tail bone hurt like he- ck.

Holding a fist away from his face and twisting his body, so that Malfoy couldn't get to where it hurt, he suddenly froze. Oh oh. McGonagall.

"What are you doing, Mr. Potter?"

An icy tone, chilling anger – like Snape would have done. But they were all dead, Snape, the bugger, Moony, Fred, even Colin. Funny how pains in the neck were missed when they were gone. Hell, if he had those people back, he would probably miss Moldy Shorts.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"I'm sorry, Professor.", Harry told Professor McGonagall, still frozen in an awkward pose with Malfoy on top of him. "I told him to punch me."

* * *

"Really?", Draco had not known that the former head of Gryffindor could express such scathing sarcasm. "To my old and unreliable eyes it looked like you were performing a mating dance."

"Erm...", Potter blushed. Draco noticed that because he still wasn't able to move.

"Mr. Longbottom?", the professor turned out of his line of sight.

"I didn't get it, Professor.", Longbottom said nervously, "I was- and then- _I think_ Malfoy didn't want to punch me- and they-"

A dreamy voice – the person it belonged to was most definitely not here before – clarified: "Draco has problems with Ectoplasm and Nargles.", she sighed. "And because Harry is his hero, he had to rescue him."

Now it was Draco who blushed.

Professor McGonagall sighed, too. Then she swished her wand.

"Follow me to my office, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. I am very disappointed with your behaviour."

* * *

A little while later found them both standing shamefully terrified and properly apologetic in front of the headmasters – now McGonagall's – desk. She still had not changed the password (as if _insufferable brats_ could be chosen by the stern lady; be reasonable) and the layout was still exactly the same as it had been two years ago, when Albus Dumbledore inhabited the space.

"So you are telling me this display of-", with a dismissive wave of her hand Professor McGonagall continued with her inquisition, "spontaneous wrestling – was because Neville Longbottom would not follow blunt insults to 'piss off'? Potter, what have you been thinking?", she expressed with utter unbelief.

"Well, basically?", Potter blurted out. "But- uh, you know, it was fast, and I needed...erm. Yeah. It was stupid."

Professor McGonagall stared at Potter as if he had just grown another head.

"Sorry, ma'am.", the object of her fascination mumbled and lowered his head.

"What excuse would you bring forward, Mr. Malfoy?", the stern woman directed the question to him.

"Nothing, ma'am.", he used the same honorific that Potter had used, because it had already showed it's effect. "It was very-", and he didn't use Gryffindor, no matter how strong the urge was, "ignorant and foolish of us and shall not happen again."

She looked over her glasses, then sighed: "Very well." She leaned back into her chair and pointed on the two chairs open to visitors. "Please, take a seat, both of you."

They looked at each other, Potter shrugged barely noticeable and they carried on to sit beside each other, facing the headmistress. Professor McGonagall continued to stare at them and a long while they sat there in silence, until Potter grew nervous and started shifting on his seat. The headmistress sighed again, then pointed at a bowl with chocolate chip cookies. "Have a cookie."

Both Potter and him were too perplexed to not take the biscuit. It tasted good, slightly chewy in the middle and dissolved into sugar on his tongue.

"It may be good for both of your public relations if you would not get up and start looking for trouble.", Professor McGonagall continued her scoldings after the little peace-offering. Not very subtle, but as the head of the Gryffindor house – former head – she probably was necessarily blunt.

"I am never looking for trouble!", exclaimed an aggravated Potter.

Draco snorted and Potter turned to look at him. To really look at him, with eyes that had stared into the abyss and onto death, eyes that had escaped those encounters unscathed. It made him feel not terrified, not even slightly scared, which was _odd_ in some way.

He felt more resigned, as if he had finally admitted to being the lesser wizard, although his blood might be more pure, although he might be more cunning, although he survived _serving_ a megalomaniac. As if it was a fate, no one, not even a Malfoy could escape and Potter knew that. May have known all along, but Draco did not realize. And it hit him like gravity after a Wronsky Feint: This man standing before him was a hero through every pore in his body and trouble came looking for him. And Harry James Potter would still be himself and a hero and nothing, in this world or in every other, could change that.

He swallowed. Hard.

_It sure wasn't fun to be him._ Potter smiled at him tentatively, as though he understood what Draco had seen and offered – _something_.

"Anyway.", Professor McGonagall cleared her throat in an attempt to draw their attention. "I had wanted to talk with you about two things – first, the Ministry of Magic has requested with the effort to raise the defence and offence levels of the general public by giving courses and demonstrations of famous witches and wizards and has been seeking your attendance. Secondly, there is the possibility to take supplementary lessons for NEWT's, the exams are going to be delayed until Christmas so that all students have the possibility to catch up."

She took a deep breath, as if nudging herself to continue. "Now the interim minister – Kingsley Shacklebolt – would like to see a duel of equal partners, and I thought of you two."

Probably sensing the disbelieving looks sent her way, she continued with a slight smile on her lips. "You would deny that, but your magic feels very much complimentary-" Potter and Draco looked at each other with a cringing painful understanding. This meeting would be (a) long and (b) _very_ coercive.

* * *

Both left the meeting exhausted, glad and astonished how the headmistress had persuaded them to give a demonstration of fighting skills in the ministry. As Potter had not known before that the ministry (compared to muggle ministries) was not only an instrument of political power, but what made it politically powerful was the fact that in a way it taught magic.

Professor McGonagall had lapsed (under the pretence of explaining the process to Potter) into a full-blown explanation of the master/apprentice arrangements, as well as the work of the ministry as – what she called a university. But what would have an universe to do with learning anything? He understood how she compared scientist, how ever crude the methods they used were, to the Unspeakables, they did experiment after all.

Anyway, Potter seemed to understand the further usage of the ministry as a school, and as soon as that was cleared, she somehow got him to agree to a mock duel. Now they were standing in front of the gargoyle, relieved to have escaped the persuasion.

"Uhm.", said Potter eloquently and shuffled his feet, a characteristic he didn't loose over the past year of war-time. "Sorry about hugging you in the Great Hall and all that."

Draco shot him a disbelieving look. Then he overcame his inner Malfoy and lowered himself to actually thank the hero for his interferences: "I am going to thank you now, for hugging me in the Great Hall. _Please_ don't faint. I'd rather not explain an unconscious Potter to anyone."

Potter looked at him curiously, a little wistfully and definitely interested in something. Draco didn't even dare to imply it was him Potter was interested in, and he hadn't had the time to dwell on those thoughts, as Potter suddenly stood up alerted.

"By the way, before I forget-", he told Draco who had been alarmed for a minute and reached in his back pocket, "your wand. Hawthorne, 10 inches, unicorn tail hair. It is perfectly in good health, and I handled it with care. Thank you for-", he paused, struggling for words, "distributing it for a cause."

Draco looked at the wand with awe. "Can you give it to me like that?", he asked, although the only thing on his mind was, how he could grab that wand and hide it, so no one would be able to take it away. "Wouldn't it be dangerous?"

Potter smiled ruefully: "No. It's safe. And I probably should have given it to you right after the battle, but..." He shrugged.

"And- it's mine?", Draco voiced, and almost winced at the desperate sound of his vocal tone.

"It's yours. It still works for you, because I have freely given-", confirmed Potter. Then, with a nervous gesture running his hand through his hair, he exclaimed: "Fuck, Malfoy, are you going to take it, or not?"

Gingerly, Draco picked up the wand from Potter's hand and glanced at it. The wand felt warm and fuzzy, like a bed on a rainy afternoon. Silver sparks escaped from the tip. After studying his wand, he glared at Potter: "I still hate you, Potter."

"Would be disappointing if you did anything else, Malfoy."

"Thank Merlin for small favours.", Draco said, rolling his eyes.

They continued to the Common Room. For once, without bantering.


	3. Letters and Babysitting

## Chapter III- Letters and Babysitting

 

In the dormitory, Potter picked up a orange blanket with turquoise– fur?

"Meet Teddy Lupin.", he took the bundle and held it forward for the perplexed Malfoy heir to look at. When the bundle began to move, a little sleepy head turned up, strangely enough with turquoise hair. "Unfortunately, his parents were killed in the battle– you might know them, Professor Lupin and your cousin Tonks. Well– Tonks wasn't Tonks since she married Lupin, but...", he trailed off.

Draco swallowed. Cute little poppet– another orphan, who'd probably be ready to take over the world in a few years. "Andromeda's grandson, is he?", he asked, although he knew the answer. As if anyone would ever trust Bellatrix with children – if they wanted them well and alive. "Half-werewolf, right? Does he have... any problems?"

Potter almost jerked the baby away. He looked furious. "Get over yourself, Malfoy!", he spat. "Not everything is a matter of blood!"

Draco closed his eyes. Oh, yes, he deserved that. _Somewhat_. "No, Potter, you are right. Not everything is about blood.", he said outwardly calm, but inside he was seething. "Although, you might want to consider that I _haven't_ met any half-werewolves and there could be unexpected side effects you _might_ need help with. Seeing that you don't deem me worthy enough of any communication that doesn't involve punching me or me punching you, or you asking for help, I take  the baby – Teddy, which is, by the by, not an useful indicator that the boy is in fact harmless – is as fit as a fiddle." He had started shouting, or at least talked very loudly, and so he took another deep breath. Potter looked positively shaken; so Draco added, for his peace of mind, because he was so sure the Golden Boy would start pitying him again– heck, he almost worshipped him, because he got his wand back. "Just do me a favour, will you? Don't start pretending you'd care."

Potter closed his eyes briefly as well, as if he shared some of the inner struggle of the Ex-Death-Eather. "Remind me to send you the Evil Overlord List, should you ever desire to become a Dark Lord?", he said, absolutely non-sequitur and out of context.

Draco blinked. "The– what!?"

"Never mind.", Potter shock his head and smiled ruefully. "Oh well. Only thing different about young Teddy here, is that he inherited his mother's metamorphmagus ability. Nymphadora Tonks – she absolutely hated her name, was one, too. She favoured bubblegum-pink, though.”

Somehow, the baby had ended up in Draco's arm. Unconsciously, he had begun rocking the child, but that he would deny later. “Is he– does– erm, he's fine using magic?”, stuttering was so last year. But he couldn't help yelping a little, when the turquoise – let's just go with hair – turned into the Malfoy blonde.

“Honestly, we don't know.”, Potter admitted. “But Hermione thinks it's a natural ability. Like me speaking parseltongue.” He grimaced. “Well. We both do it without noticing and have to concentrate hard, if we want to. I reckon she's going to do a thesis on that. That and house-elf rights.”, he added as an after-thought. Then he grimaced again.”Sorry, Malfoy.”

Draco almost smiled. “Ah. Spew.”

“Don't call it that, should she be able to hear you.”

“Better let my family know our house-keeping budget is going to go through the roof.”

“Malfoy?”, Potter questioned him with raised eyebrows. “Was that a joke at your own expense?”

He suppressed his smile. But he did stay with adorable Teddy for a while.

* * *

When Draco woke up the next morning, he already felt the dread of today. Today was the day the fallen were to be buried, and the whole morning was dedicated to memorial services of those now dead.

Miserable just did not grasp how Draco felt, devastation, anger, self-loathing, grief, humiliation. All mixed into the thought that. It. Was. All. His. FAULT. He didn't befriend Potter, he antagonized the Gryffindors, he did not trust in Severus, he did not have the guts to say no, he accepted the Dark Mark™, he could not kill Dumbledore, he did not have it to torture his peers, and the list went on, and on, and on.

Strangely, his mother blossomed with the attention, he could not trouble her with his petty concerns. It was all a rather dreadful affair, and for the first time in his life, he felt the obligation to join Weasleys – for they were almost the only ones who were really in mourning.

Come midday, when funerals and memorial services were done and over (how peaceful especially Severus looked, calm, like he never really did alive – and thankfully there was no body to bury for Crabbe, because he had gotten delirious on the power, torturing gleefully for the Carrows like there was no boywonder coming to destroy the Dark Lord), Potter found him.

After exchanging pleasantries with the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Lived-And-Lived (exchanging pleasantries! How the mighty have fallen! That was almost as inconceivable as Goyle being witty, Snape being kind, or the Dark Lord petting puppies!), Potter squirmed and asked for a favour. “There is this mob of journalists out for blood.”, he elaborated. “My beloved Rita Skeeter even has a deal going for a quick amiable interview. Problem is – I don't know what to do about Teddy. Could you– maybe possibly?– watch him while I'll deal with the hungry vultures? Ron and Hermione are– ah, busy and–“

Draco did not know what hit him, when he cut the a _rticulate_ speech short. “I'll watch him. He's my grandnephew, after all.”

Perplexed Potter looked up to him. And _smiled_. “Thank you, that's– brilliant.” That smile spread to a grin all over his face, but as sudden as it appeared, it disappeared. “Well, I'm off taming the beasts.”, he frowned, then turned around to hurry to the castle, where he turned around once more to wave and shout: “Thanks, go to the Weasley's, if I'm not back by the hour!”

Only then Draco realized what he had gotten into. Go to the Weasel's– well, at least he didn't feel guilty any more. Only peeved.

“I don't know anything about taking care of babies.”, he told Teddy who scrunched up his nose and looked into his eyes with his baby-blue orbs. Rocking the child, he went slowly down the trail to the lake, where he sat down on the shore. “Really. What was your godfather thinking? But I can at least promise you to be safe. After all”, and here his voice turned dark and low, “I am a big, scary Death-Eater...”

The baby giggled. Why again were the kids only sorted in Hogwarts, when Teddy was so obviously a Gryffindor, laughing into the face of danger?

He cradled the child and then whispered, as though confessing a secret: “I really don't know how to take care of you.” And the only thing he remembered about babies was that one had to change their diaper.

Well, there was this one lullaby...

* * *

Draco groaned and looked around to see if anyone was watching. Yet he was far from any crowds still gathered after the services ended, and so he began softly hushing the boy who had started to mewl a little.

Dammit! Why had Potter left the boy with him! He didn't know how to handle children! For heaven's sake, he could easily dump the thing into the lake and no one would be none the wiser!

When it started (he, Draco reminded himself, it was a he and named Teddy...) to cry, he hushed it.

What to do, what to do, what to do...

Near panic, he recalled earlier thoughts. He was alone after all, so the singing couldn't be heard, and it wouldn't hurt, would it?

So he began singing.

"Hush little Teddy, don't say a word.", he sang softly. __And we just have to hope nobody hears that. Otherwise, we might have more corpses to bury.__

"Draco's gonna buy you a phoenix bird." _No witnesses to this crime then._

"If that phoenix bird won't sing, Draco's gonna buy you a diamond ring." _It would do so well for his reputation if this little episode ended somewhere on the media. But Potter was currently engaging Skeeter, so it couldn't be that bad._

"If that diamond ring is turned to glass, Draco's gonna buy you a looking glass." S _o you could play with your turquoise hair. At least it wasn't bubble gum pink. And you could develop that vain Black streak._

"If that looking glass gets broke, Draco's gonna buy you Aberforth's goat.", _pray tell, that would be an expensive gift. Very expensive, if you'd trust the rumours._

"If Aberforth's goat won't pull, Draco's gonna buy you a snake and a skull." W _hich would help his reputation immensely. Gifting Potter's godchild a Morsmordre._

"If that sneaky snake turns over, Draco's gonna buy you a house-elf named Rover." _At least it wouldn't be named Dobby. That was the most exhilarated creature you'd ever meet._

"If that house-elf named Rover won't fart, Draco's gonna buy you a thestral and cart." Y _ou wouldn't be able to see them, but they'll still be a grand gift. A worthy gift of mine, truly._

“If that thestral cart falls down, you'll still be the sweetest Teddy in town." The bloody baby giggled. _Draco sighed._ _ _What did you expect? You sung a lullaby with Aberforth's goat. Be glad that hadn't featured in your mother's stories...__

He continued to slowly rock his little charge.

Maybe half an hour later, Teddy Lupin was sound asleep, Potter was nowhere to be seen nor heard and Draco was starting to get disastrously bored. Carefully, he stood, not waking the little boy in the progress and strolled to the more animated grounds.

He was on a mission – not from god, but Potter – to go look for the Weasleys and let them do his bidding.

* * *

Couple hours later found him sitting in a comfortable armchair in the kitchen of the Burrow, sipping tea and occasionally munching on a cookie. Mrs. Weasley – she told him to call her Molly, but she also told him he had a great singing voice, which he also decided to ignore – was standing at the counter making... something and George Weasley, left-over twin, was just outside the window chopping wood manually. He said, it was work-out – whatever that might be – and it was to make him exhausted, so he could sleep with his other half gone.

“Tea, my darling?”, Mrs. Weasley asked him. She had asked that more than a dozen times already, but as he had chosen to prove himself that he could, in fact, be nice to the Weasel– 'eys, he smiled pleasantly: “Thank you.”

“You know, Malfoy?”, the twin shouted through the window, “You are sitting in our kitchen letting mum fuss over you, and you have yet to insult our finances!”

“Probably because I am having a shouting match with one of the most successful entrepreneur of Diagon Alley!”, he called back. “My condolences for the loss of your son, ma'am”, he then told Mrs. Weasley.

The woman turned to look at him and smiled sadly. “It's all right.” She took a deep breath and repeated: “It's all right.” She took up the wand lying on the counter, looked ruefully for seemingly no reason and charmed five knitting needles to perform their duty. “You were just a child, caught up in– things, people much older than you did not understand.”, something akin to a sob escaped her throat. Draco wondered, if he should feel empathy or pity. Because this was still Weasleys he was thinking about. “Bill and Ron killed people. I killed people! We are all– We do cope rather well with the whole thing, don't you think?” She turned around to smile again. “But I fear the real struggle has only just began. We are all murderers and have to cope with the dead. Only the dead have seen the end of war, don't they say?”

He smiled, almost as ruefully: “They also say: Laws are silent in the times of war.”

The wood-chopping outside stopped, and when the Weasley matriarch pored another cup of tea and said: “It's all rather dreadful.” George Weasley entered the kitchen to sit beside Teddy.

Teddy, who had munched rather happily on the table, started to whimper.

“Oh, my.”, Mrs. Weasley turned her attention on the tiny child, “I fear he is teething. Poor Harry.” As Draco knew nothing about babies in general and his former-never-to-be-mentioned cousin Teddy Lupin specifically, he said: “Guess so.”

George Weasley snorted. “Wherever did you get that titbit of genius, Malfoy?”

Draco wondered if he should answer with 'Daytime Television.', but either they wouldn't understand the allusion, or it would ruin his reputation even further. While he studied the man sitting in front of him, he noticed dark lining under his eyes, and a slightly bitter streak around the mouth. George Weasley didn't look as if he took the death of his brother very well. But that was only expected, wasn't it?

In a rare fit of comradeship, he pondered if sarcasm would help overcome the grief. Barely a week had passed since the battle. So he sat back haughtily: “A Malfoy shall always remember to instil knowledge in those less fortunate of wit.”

George barked out in laughter. It was bitter, yes, but still full of amusement, so Draco smiled smugly. “Do you even believe in that bullshit you're sprouting?”

“George!”, admonished his mother.

“Sorry, mum.”, the response.

Draco took another look at the highly specialized clock hanging at the wall. Potter's arrow still pointed to 'late', but while he was looking, it turned to 'coming home'.

“Anyway.”, the twin Weasel stared at him funnily, “How did you end up with Tonks' son and at the Burrow?”

“Perfect Potter went to intimidate the press and left me with poor little orphan for purposes beyond my imagination and to keep him safe. Like the Saviour he is, he couldn't help it and told me to go fetch – you, which, I think, was to help me -(snort)- because he delegates. Can't do nothing on his own, needs even my wand to defeat anyone.” Draco knew he was ignoring the Malfoy conduct code( (a) he was whining and (b) insulting his host, Potter, possibly also Teddy and frankly (c) he didn't give a shit) Potter was late, he was currently sitting in the home of the family his family was feuding since maybe forever, and he did not have a good night's sleep. Obviously all stupid excuses no Slytherin would have bought. Well, except Crabbe, and Goyle and Parkinson and Smeltwick...

To put it mildly, George Weasley did not find the topic of conversation very funny. He sneered. “Must be satisfying, eh Malfoy? To bow down to a half-blood, scraping on your knees for a tiny bit of fame? How invaluable does that make your mother? Do you have to whore her out, too, so that nobody dares to lay a finger on daddy dear?”

The slight buzzing noise of the shield confirmed Draco's suspicion that a noise screen had been put up, because Molly Weasley had not come back from the pantry yet.

Only the year long training as the punch-boy of Lord Voldemort the Mad Snakehead made Draco able to suppress his fury. He may have been way out of line, but insulting a guest in a pure blood home like George Weasley had done was a more than sufficient reason for a vendetta. Not that Draco wanted one, but still.

He sucked his breath inward, when George Weasley started mentioning Potter.

Draco had mistaken the slur as to the Dark Lord, not to Potter. Both Potter and the Dark Lord shared a background... why was he sitting here again, having to listen to someone accusing him of exploiting the Boy-Who-Lived?

“-hoping to get into Harry's good graces perhaps?”

Even Draco himself was surprised by the rage he felt, as the left-over twin started compromising Potter. Before he even progressed that he was actually defending his school nemesis, he had drawn his wand. “Think, Weasley!”, he snarled. “I owe Potter my freedom and my life – and that of my family! Moreover, you seem to have forgotten that the main occupation for death-eaters was torturing – I'd rather appreciate you would insult Potter in my immediate vicinity.”

Another red head peeked around the door. “Blimey, Harry. Look at this!”, he said, apparently having listened in on the conversation. “Malfoy sitting in our kitchen defending you!” The only Weasley his age – he was glad the Prewett brothers hadn't produced kids if they were anything like the Weasels – came into the kitchen.

“Please tell me it's Lee Jordan poly-juiced, not the ferret!”, Ron Weasley told his brother. “I am getting an aneurysm.” Potter and Granger joined their friend, and Draco was sure he didn't imagine Granger mumbling under her breath: “Swallowing a dictionary does not make up for speaking while eating.”

“Sorry, Weasel.”, Draco said smirking, feeling infinitely better by the skirmish and almost forgetting the anti-Malfoy (at least in this home, it weren't anti-Death-Eater) vibes. “Loath to disappoint you, but it's me.”

Returning from the pantry, Molly Weasley began filling the kettle again. “There you are! You must be exhausted, Harry.”, she stroked his hair, while Potter tried to avoid her hands, then turned to the others: “Cuppa tea, my dears?”

“Percy was looking for you.”, the left-over twin said in a voice that had lost all malice and sounded a little broken. Draco felt a twinge of guilt – the boy had lost his twin less than weeks ago.

“I found them.”, yet another Weasley answered by entering the kitchen. Somehow it seemed to expand, because it was cosy while only Mrs. Weasley was present, but it still didn't feel stuffed. “Mum.”, the 3rd Weasley greeted, and: “Malfoy.” It felt almost cordially, almost as if he was welcome, and he almost wanted to cry. Draco hurriedly drained his still half-full mug of tea and stood up before any more Weasleys could make their entry. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Weasley.”, he had been thinking of deliberately calling her Molly, but that just didn't fit the woman. Nor was it especially wise to insult anyone in their home lair. Then he turned to Potter: “Should you ever be at loss for what to do with your godson–“, he presented it both as an opportunity and as extortion, “feel free to. Lest you leave him in unfortunate company.” He sneered at the Weasley twin who grinned unabashed. Draco knew that his offer had nothing to do with the live-debt like pure-blood honour would demand, but rather with the fact that he liked the little spawn. For the Slytherin it would be a not so subtle request, and all just because of his idiosyncratic obsession. Pansy would shriek – imagine the horror.

“Anyway, gotta go.”, on the way out, he patted Potter on the shoulder. “Have a Dark Lord to resurrect.” Before anyone could process the words said, he went out of the door.

* * *

There it was.

Draco waited three seconds, four seconds and there – took a stride. Potter stumbled out of the door as if pushed. “Uhm.”, he declared valiantly, after he pulled himself together. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Though I am rather late, aren't I?”

“Late?”, mockingly Draco cocks an eyebrow. “Why, I only spent three hours at the house of people my family has been feuding with for centuries. I have only drunken approximately 5 litres of tea, was subjected to torturous interrogations and was forced to defend the valiant hero Potter, of all people! Thanking me! Potter, you imbecile! That warrants more favours than I care to count! What more do you want from me, Hero Boy?”

He saw Potter shifting from one foot to the other and setting his jaw. It was strangely satisfying getting him to express his conscience. “I detest Weasleys! I hate children!”, he continued ranting and moved towards Potter. “And the reason I had to put up with both for hours?”

Potter had yielded with his back up against a shack, apparently housing chickens. Draco now stood looming over him, doing a very fine impersonation of one Severus Snape. “The fucking Boy-Who-Lived.”

Draco had not planned the encounter, relying on the moment and on the flow, but Potter thwarted his plans again, when he stared back with unwavering green eyes and raised eyebrows. “Sorry about that?”

Seething, Draco was split between beating the boy and snogging him, both very disconcerting thoughts. An half-arsed apology never did do anything well. “Thinking I'd trade one servitude for another? Carrying the delusion that anyone might actually like you, Potter?”

A glaring Potter never went well for Draco either. “Think you're the only former-servant here, Malfoy? Or maybe that I'd like you on your knees?”

Draco stared into determined eyes, eyes that betrayed very little emotion and not for the first time Draco wondered, if the boy practised Occlumency like his godfather – no one else had those unsettling expressionless eyes. Or maybe that was because they were both disturbing in their intensity. He believed those eyes to be capable of anything – not rationally, mind you, this was still Potter we were talking about.

His brain had submitted to those eyes long before he even knew Potter. “Why me?”, had that voice belonged to someone else, Draco would have said they were whining. “I don't even like Weasleys!”

Suddenly there was a glint of danger, and in the blink of an eye, Draco found their positions reversed: It was now his back that was pressed against the shack formerly containing a rather genius Ford Anglia – but that fact Draco didn't know. “Listen, Malfoy–“, a low dangerous voice said, and the name... it sounded like a disease, a pest spread through blood and veins.

Potter grabbed him bis his shoulders, pinned against old, worn wood full of splinters. “Had I not – against all advices – lied and proclaimed you fellow defeater of this Dark Lord fellow, you'd be rotting away in a cell in Azkaban. And believe me, even with all the dementors gone, it's not the most pleasant of places. You owe me.”

Oh, Draco knew that very well. Probably this was the reason why he was behaving so childish.

“You stole my wand!”

“You had me prisoner. In your own home.”, Potter countered.

“I didn't tell them – It gave you time to flee!”

“You held me up in the Room of Hidden Things.”

It was so utterly childish, and Draco didn't know which demon rode him, when he accused Potter: “You killed Crabbe and Snape.”

The pressure on his shoulders intensified, until pain starts to spread. It feels like a localized Cruciatus, pins and needle boring into his blade-bones – but maybe that was still hypersensitivity from over-exposure to said curse. A calm voice – oh, so very calm – whispered into his ear. “I have not killed them. I did not kill them. I may or may not have killed in the height of battle, but that was self-defence. I did not kill Snape, and I did not kill Crabbe. And Malfoy – I rescued you. You, my self-proclaimed enemy. I don't– want to hear what I could've done better from you.”

A sneering voice in his head said: Oh, is it that what you tell yourself so that you can sleep at night?, but he squashed the voice. Was he still not done antagonizing the boy-wonder?

“GODDAMMIT!”, Potter burst out suddenly. They hear, but not notice a faint cry from the house – Molly Weasley's “language, dears!”– because he continued ranting. “What else was I supposed to do? What would you have me done for a better end? I sent them home! I sent all the kids home!”

A fist hit the shack maybe three inches away from his ear.

Draco was proud that he didn't move. The shack, however, did. Nothing could withstand the abruptly released fury of the Almighty One – the shack tipped over and fell down. Draco – still being pressed against the wood – dropped equally graceful, yet their eyes still clung to each other.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

In that moment, Draco really hated himself. He saw both Potter, the schoolboy, nervous and overly talented in quidditch, the Almighty One, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, Boy-Who-Lived, and he would not for the heck of it, help any of them. Draco did not know, had not known, how to comfort anyone – specifically not Potter. But he could not help feeling a sort-of kinship with the Potter, who broke down before him, because the standards he had set himself had not been fulfilled. Strangely, even though he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys do notdo empathy, he felt enough to grab wonderboy's hair (still a mess) and cradled his head against his shoulder, just like with Teddy not long ago.

“Are you really all right out there?”, Ron screamed from the Weasley porch. “Don't worry, the shack is magicked- a quick Reparo will do!”

“Everything is fine!”, Draco shouted back (Malfoys do not shout! – in his ears) and embraced the Chosen One harder. “You could have done nothing more. It's fine. There was never an obligation to save anyone, and you did almighty well. Shh.”, he whispered. “Good hero-boy. You did enough. You did plenty. It's all right.”

While Draco was sure that part of this night would be forever ingrained into his mind, he would always deny the later part. Potter was either sobbing, or laughing into his part-silk robes, ruining them even further than Teddy had done. After maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour, after Ron had repeated his question (this time Potter had answered with a plain YES!), Potter looked up with green, red framed eyes, smiled, said: “Has anyone ever told you that you can be quite courteous?”, and kissed him.

Surprisingly, it wasn't wet. It was a rather good kiss even, besides the wrecked boards and nails of the shack gouging into his back, and the uncomfortable weight of Potter on him. Nice and long, and could perhaps be called a proper snog, with tongue and–

Before he decided the whole night would remained a blur – partly because of the shack incident, partly because of the alcohol induced stupor he found himself in later – and he pretended that the last incident never happened.

He did a “piss-poor” job of it, though. It had been a very nice kiss.

* * *

Never mind the past excitements, days continued like days normally do.

Things continued running more smoothly than ever, until some smart alec noticed they were still missing a proper minister. Pre-election warfare, more commonly known as “campaigning”, started.

Death-eater trials were held, and all common as well as all the special courts were busy. Draco's father was still in custody – the rest of the Malfoys were curiously under the protection of Potter, although the press decided there must be something sinister there – which was why it was not commonly known.

NEWT-preparation courses had started.

Ginny Weasley, love-interest of the famous hero, was photographed in Diagon Alley snogging some poor French guy, the reason why Witch Weekly called a poll – “Which Witch is to be the Chosen One's 'Chosen One'!” – we will refrain from commenting further.

Correspondence between Potter and Draco was at an all-time low, until a unexpected letter arrived. It was to the point, more polite than not, and rather precise.

 

> Malfoy,
> 
> for the students who prepare for their exams, tutors are provided during the next few weeks at the ministry. Contact witch Amanda Doors at the Educational Department for additional course work, books and extra-credit.
> 
> Hermione wants to open a study group and told me to invite you.
> 
> Test are held from 9 o'clock to noon in the last week of August.
> 
> Potter

 

 

Draco replied rather...rude.

 

> Potter,
> 
> People appreciate a little fore-warning, when you built up a correspondence. Nevertheless, the information was rather useful.
> 
> Should Granger be in need of a free tutor, I am not available.
> 
> Nice picture in the prophet – I take it Ginevra was enjoying herself?
> 
> You-Know-Who

 

 

Potter replied in an even worse tone.

 

> Mail-Boy,
> 
> thank you for your much obliged insight, I appreciate the very big effort it must have made.
> 
> You do a very ignorant impression of a Dark Lord, though.
> 
> The Chosen One
> 
> PS: How's your mother, ferret-boy? Tell me, how can such a lovely woman breed such scum?

 

> Wonderboy,
> 
> looks like someone took lessons in witticism. Don't worry, you'll never master the fine art of subtle insults. The miserable duel is planned on September 5th to celebrate the beginning of the end.
> 
> I can only hope it's a good enough impression to vanquish me out of a rotten sense of duty.
> 
> Be prepared,
> 
> Malfoy

 

* * *

 

Ginevra Weasley was caught snogging Zacharias Smith in the corner store to Imperial Alley. Ron and George Weasley were photographed screaming obscenities at Fleur Weasley and Potter was filling out adoption papers for one Teddy Remus Lupin.

Draco got a sloppy letter on the back of a recipe, written with something that looked very much like blood.

 

> Malfoy, my dearest death-eater,
> 
> met Pansy today. Even to my love-deprived ears and immensely reliable body, she is disturbingly annoying – how in Batman's cave have you put up with her?
> 
> If you have something like a noble sense – since you can't be common – talk with her, I plead you! She's frying the brains of more people than dear Voldy did.
> 
> Beware her chopstick though.
> 
> Hero Boy.

 

He only sent a short note back.

 

> Potter, it's astonishing how coherently you write, when you are drunk. I should have gone to the papers...

 

He got an equally perplexing short note back:

> Thanks. Can I invite you to dinner?
> 
> Potter.

 

> Potter,
> 
> you're nutters. If that letter meant to get to me: (1) you are mad, (2) I want the recipe of the potion you are on and (3) the correct form is “May I invite you to dinner”.
> 
> I will see you at 1900 at “The Questing Beast”. You will pay.
> 
> Malfoy

 

* * *

 

Celebrity Gossip

>  
> 
> _Harry Potter (18, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord) was seen with Draco Malfoy (18, former death-eater, now philanthropist and heir to the Malfoy fortune) were seen together at “The Questing Beast”. They seemed quite cosy with each other, although this reporter heard them refer to each other by their last names. They left together to shores unknown. Is there more to their relationship than school-rivals? Wouldn't we all like to know – though they_ __do_ _ _look very fetching together._

 

 

* * *

 

 _Further public discloser of the relationship between Unspeakable Potter and his... partner was prohibited ex post facto_ (that is, in retroactive effect) _up to 9_ _th_ _August 1989. Informations about the couples whereabouts are classified._

(This includes, but is not limited to the infamous Noodle Incident.)

_We wish them well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> It's still open for a sequel, though.
> 
> Edit: Nevermind. I'm fine.


End file.
